I Like to Watch You Dance
by Zoffoli
Summary: "I like to watch you dance", had said Moriarty. And now he has Sherlock dancing in the palm of his hand... with John as an audience. Strip dancing and power play scene. Johnlock. Rated M for adult contents. Please read Warnings inside. First opus in the Dance series, prequel to 'Let Me Dance for You' and 'Dance is Chemistry'.


********Disclaimer: ********All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners, Arthur Conan Doyle and in their BBC version Stephen Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and Stephen Thompson. The original characters and plot are mine. I am in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

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><p><strong>AN:** I remind you that this is Johnlock although most of the interactions take place between Sherlock and Moriarty – just so you don't read if you're not interested in that pairing. I do have a _comfort _sequel in mind, but don't expect any here. Many thanks to TheRimmerConnection for betaing this story! I take full responsability for the oddities that remain - it just means I didn't follow her advice or tried something else and it didn't work ;) Feel free to point out anything to me, crit reviews are much appreciated.

**Warnings:**** this is non-con (even if Sherlock interprets it as dub-con or even as con), basically a torture scene (mainly of the mind, but of the body too). Adult contents, not strictly speaking rape (no penetration; nothing graphic under the belt either) but an elaborate method of defilement and despoilment nonetheless; suicidal thoughts, and a lot of angst. Rated M for a reason, so please read with caution.**

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><p><em>~¤Zoffoli<em>

oOo

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><p><strong>I Like to Watch You Dance<strong>

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><p><strong>"Wakey wakey, sexy. Daddy's waited long enough!"<strong>

Hearing that singsong voice was possibly the worst way Sherlock had ever been forced back into consciousness after being drugged. Because, although he couldn't quite recall the actual occurrence, he certainly had been, if the numbness of his limbs and the drowsiness was anything to go by. He willed his eyes open however, as _that_ voice, if it wasn't a figment of his imagination, didn't bode very well (not that having auditory hallucinations of Moriarty would, mind you, but him actually being in the room was a dimmer prospect nonetheless).

They were in a dark and damp room, most likely a basement. The lack of any window was compensated by stark neon lights that blinded the detective and sharpened the headache that was threatening to turn into a migraine. All in all, Sherlock could still make out that the place was rather squalid.

**"Oh, boys, it's such a _pleasure_ to see you again!"**

Now, _that_ served to wake him up completely. **Boys.** John was here. Sherlock looked up and searched the room. He was sitting on a metallic chair, unbound (God, he must really have been quite heavily drugged if they hadn't deemed that necessary), and about two metres away in front of him was a table, behind which stood Moriarty with a lopsided smile. _Lunatic._

Then he turned his head to the right and his heart sank. John was there indeed. Cleverly bound and tied to a chair that was fixed to the ground, gagged, he was staring very intently at Sherlock with much sharper eyes than the detective, which indicated that he had been awake for a while already. Behind him in the darkest corner of the room stood a man Sherlock had never seen, but whom he could easily deduce. Military stance but with something feral in his gaze – must have been sent back for unnecessary violence and killing. Assassin, then? He checked his hands. Sniper. Well, might as well be both, since he was working for Moriarty. Another madman then, definitely not as clever as dear old Jim, but who wouldn't mind getting his hands dirty – hell, who would probably mind if he _didn't_. Sherlock really didn't like him standing so close to John.

**"Now, my dear, are we done deducing and ready to start?"**

Sherlock looked back to his nemesis and stood up from the chair, willing away the last bits of dizziness.

**"Start what?"**

**"The show, of course!"**

He giggled. Sherlock wondered how the man could be so brilliant and at the same time so _unhinged_. He shrugged and walked straight to John, obviously with the intention of freeing him and getting out of this asylum. But before he had made it to the third step, the man in the corner emerged and pointed a rifle. Not at him, but at John's head. _Of course_. Sherlock stared.

**"Dull."**

**"Oh, don't worry, it gets better! I just had to make sure you'd play the game, you know. And then I realized it would be so much more entertaining if little Johnny was here to watch as well!"**

Sherlock was growing impatient. And, though he would never admit it, nervous. This was getting old. And he _hated_ anyone pointing a weapon at John. Especially if the situation clearly put them at the mercy of their enemy – which quite frankly rather seemed to be the case presently.

**"To watch _what_?"**

He tried to sound bored but his irritation was clear.

**"Tsk tsk, you haven't been listening dear. I told you, the show. _Your_ show."**

Sherlock blinked. What in the world was he on about?

**"Right."**

**"Ooh how I _love_ that confused look on your face! Nothing but delightful. But once again, you really haven't paid attention. Why do we do what we do?"**

**"Because we're bored."**

**"Indeed. And _why you_?"**

Sherlock stared right back into his archenemy's eyes but he wasn't seeing him; he was opening all the drawers concerning his encounters with the madman in his mind palace, drawers he really would rather have deleted if it weren't for the lingering threat the man represented to him – and to _John_. And then he found it. Something must have betrayed his bewilderment in his gaze, for Moriarty grinned broadly.

**"Yes, Sherlock, that's it. _I like to watch you dance_."**

The consulting detective blinked again. That was becoming a habit around the man.

**"You want me to dance."**

It wasn't a question so much as a statement, but the tone clearly stated that he believed Moriarty had finally lost it.

**"That would be lovely, yes."**

Sherlock snorted.

**"Are you saying all of..." **he waved his hands around, as if to encompass the whole _absurd_ situation: the kidnapping, John securely tied to a chair, and _God_ couldn't he just drop that _gun_ -** "... this was just so you could watch me dance?"**

This was unbelievable. Just who did the man think he was? Sherlock could never have deduced such a stupid, stupid motive.

**"Oh I wouldn't say that,"** cut in the obnoxious singsong voice.

Sherlock looked daggers at him and could almost hear John's thoughts: _Oh God he can read minds too, and a Holmes' to boot._

**"Should we call it power play? I know you have a weakness for that... Not that it's your only weakness, mind you."**

Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed in deeply.

**"But I don't dance. I never have."**

_I can't believe I'm having this conversation. And with none other than Jim Moriarty._

**"Well, you've got to start somewhere, haven't you?"**

He _dared_ to sound excited about it. The consulting detective felt a shiver run down his spine. He was beginning to feel uneasy.

**"Why don't you get on with it, beautiful? I think we've been patient enough."**

Sherlock swallowed.

**"I told you. I don't know how to."**

**"Now, now, don't make me laugh, dear. We both know you must have had access to such information at one point in your life, and that you're hardly one to forget things easily. So why don't you check around your mind palace, huh?"**

The detective almost heard John catching his breath – but he must have imagined that; his partner was gagged after all.

**"Oh don't look at me like that. Of course I know about your mind palace. What do you think _I_ organize my mind into?"**

Sherlock felt sick in his stomach. He didn't know whether it was just the side effect of the drug, or if his nemesis getting under his skin was making him nauseous. He hated to hear Moriarty talk about _his_ mind palace so casually. Because Sherlock knew that the man war perfectly aware of what he was talking about, could actually understand the way it worked more than even John ever would.

**"Deleted it."**

**"Tut tut, I'm sure you can always revive things you've deleted if provided with sufficient incentive."**

Sherlock heard the click of the gun on his right and his whole body tensed.

**"Relax, my dear, nothing will happen to the good doctor if you just go along with it. Now. _Dance for me. _Pleaaase?_"_**

Sherlock needed to buy time. He had to get them out of here. And _fast._

**"What kind of dance do you want?"**

**"Oh, I'm not difficult to please. ****Any way you'd like to strip is fine. Must be sexy though – but I know you'd manage that anyhow."** He winked.

This shocked the detective out of his thoughts. Dumbfounded, he looked back at the lunatic.

**"_Excuse_ me?"**

**"Oh, I'd rather you say 'I'm sorry' or 'Please forgive me'. Begging is perfectly acceptable, gives some spice to it!"**

**"You're mad."**

**"It's not like you to state the obvious. And if you don't begin right away I'm afraid I'll have to distract myself with something else while I'm waiting. Your _pet _for instance."**

Sherlock stopped thinking and took his coat off, throwing it onto the table.

**"Oooo! Now you're enthusiastic. Good, veeery good."**

Next came the scarf. He was starting to unbutton his shirt when Moriarty's voice interrupted him.

**"I said _dance_, my dear. Don't make me repeat myself. Oops, but you just DID!"**

Sherlock jumped as he shouted the last word. Moriarty added darkly:

**"Sebastian."**

Sherlock realized who he was addressing just as said man hit John's head with the gun. Hard. The yelp of surprise and pain was muffled by the gag. Sherlock paled considerably.

**"Now where were we?"**

This was not good. Not good at all.

_Dance. Think! Dance, dance, dance. Strip dance. Pole dance, no. Lap dance, no no no. God I can't do this!_

**"Fine. I'll occupy myself differently then. Seb?"**

The man, still holding the gun in one hand, took out a knife with the other, and started running it down John's neck, shifting to the left side and slowly cutting the skin, lightly, all the way down to the shoulder.

**"Stop. Please, stop."**

The henchman pressed the blade and started digging the flesh. Exactly where John's scar must have been.

**"I said stop! _Please_."**

Sherlock wanted nothing more than to move and run to his friend and punch the abhorrent ex-soldier torturing him, but he didn't dare move because of the gun still aimed at his friend's head.

**"Then show me something interesting to watch. You're being so dull, even Johnny here is more entertaining than you. Look at his face. Have you noticed how it's been changing? At first he was irritated, then confused, and at one point he was almost _annoyed_ with _you_, thinking you might just as well get it over with so you two could get out of here quickly. But then I said _strip_, and his attitude changed rather _drastically_. Didn't you notice?"**

Moriarty was walking around the table towards the doctor now.

**"What do you think, Sherlock? Was it disbelief? Rage? _Anticipation_?"**

John glared at him. Moriarty just grinned and raised his hand until it touched the doctor's face and lifted his chin. John resisted but there wasn't much he could do with all those ropes tying him down so tightly – that really was professional work.

**"Don't touch him,"** Sherlock growled.

Moriarty sighed theatrically.

**"You really don't get it, do you? You're in no position to give orders, love. And let's add another little rule, shall we? Even when begging, you're not allowed to use the negative. For example, you can't say 'Please don't touch my John', but only 'Please look at me instead'. Of course then you've got to be worth it. Otherwise I'll be really frustrated and..."**

Putting his hand on the knife he pressed the blade in deeper and twisted it sadistically. Once again, John's muffled cry was too much to bear for Sherlock, who whispered in a sombre tone:

**"Please look at me instead."**

Moriarty turned and he locked eyes with him. Strip dancing it would be, then. He swallowed with difficulty. And then got on with it.

He started moving his hips awkwardly. He knew he was supposed to go slowly, removing one piece at a time, and there was no way to avoid the humiliation. He also knew that _confidence_ and _attitude_ were key to this: but there was no way he could act like that while strip teasing. Body was transport. Anything else was a waste of time and useless and _awkward_.

_No, stop. Don't think of that. Just concentrate on the data you have. This is just enacting data. Nothing else._

And so he started reciting mentally what he had gathered from numerous cases that had brought him in cabarets and nightclubs and other less recommendable places. _Tease and taunt by only revealing certain parts of the body. Then cover them up again to gradually work your way down to your last garments_. He couldn't help but shiver at the thought and be overwhelmed with disgust.

He spread his legs slightly apart and tried to rock his hips from side to side. He found it harder not to be self-conscious than he thought, and he could feel the three gazes upon his body. He knew his movements were probably clumsy and that he looked ridiculous, because he had _never_ been graceful and wriggling his hips around definitely wouldn't help. But that really was the whole point, wasn't it? Power play indeed.

He closed his eyes as he started to circle his hips in a figure eight motion. Attempted to, anyway. Such coordination between the data he held and his own body had never been useful – for fighting, yes, running, jumping, ducking, certainly. But dancing? _Strip_ dancing?

_STOP. Focus._

He brought his hands up and resumed unbuttoning his shirt – he would never be able to wear that one again – and felt one of the three gazes being averted. John, undoubtedly. Of course _he_ would be disgusted as well, and also wouldn't want to see his friend put to such shame.

**"What's that, Johnny boy? Don't like what you see? Or do you like it _too much_?"**

Sherlock opened his eyes sharply and turned his face towards the repulsive man still looming over his flatmate.

**"Oh, don't stop, Sherlock, you were doing fine. Although you really _should_ find something to do with those arms of yours – I mean, something creative, y'know. I'm sure your pet would agree. Well, I say pet, but _this_ is quite a reversal, isn't it?"**

The man named Sebastian smirked and Sherlock felt himself flush red – whether from anger or shame, he didn't want to know. He looked away and resumed wriggling his hips to the rhythm of an imaginary beat.

**"Good, that's good. Ever the musician."**

Oh how he hated it. Hated that this man could read his mind and know exactly what was going on in it in such an embarrassing situation.

**"Self-conscious now, are we?"**

_Stop, stop! Just concentrate on the beat and the movements._

He was quite aware that he was shaking very slightly. He knew Moriarty would notice too, regardless of how nearly imperceptible it really was.

Once he was done with the buttons, he arched his spine, throwing his head back, and started running his arms from his torso to his chest and up through his black curls, accelerating the eight-shaped movements of his hips until he was thrusting his pelvic bone again and again, absolutely refusing to think reflexively on what he was doing. He felt so out of place, this was just so _foreign_ and he hated it and most of all he hated the fact that _John_ would witness it. He really hoped his friend had stopped looking – his body was burning with shame and he could no longer tell how many eyes were on him.

**"No no no, Johnny boy, you have to watch him. Sexy's doing his best out there for you, y'know. And be honest, I'm sure you wouldn't want to miss that _for the world_."**

_Shut up, SHUT UP! Stop using my words, stop talking to my John, stop... What am I saying? Oh God, God..._

**"Seb."**

Upon hearing the dreaded name Sherlock froze and looked up frantically.

**"No! Please..."**

He shut his mouth as his gaze met with the gun pointed at him. At _him_. Well, that was a progress. But then he understood what was going on. Not a progress, then.

**"Don't make me shoot our star, Johnny boy. Just keep your eyes on him, won't you? I know you're dying to. Unless you want to add a little blood to the show? Didn't think you'd be one to enjoy _that_ kind of thing. But you _would_, wouldn't you? A soldier _and_ a doctor... am I right, Captain?"**

If looks could kill, Moriarty would have been long gone. But John's eyes now became even darker, if that was possible at this point. Sherlock hated the way his nemesis taunted his flatmate and how powerless John must have felt. There really was nothing at all he could do about this.

Sherlock, on the other hand, could.

**"Please look at me."**

Jim turned and cocked his head to the side, acting all surprised. The detective tried to ignore the look of shock on John's face. In fact, he decided to ignore John altogether. He couldn't bear the thought of his flatmate and colleague watching him like this, and so decided to deny his very presence.

He had resumed his dance exactly as it was - arching his back, wriggling his hips and thrusting forward, arms running over his torso and up to his hair – but now he was looking straight into the eyes of his enemy, and Moriarty must have found _something_ interesting there because his attention shifted successfully back to Sherlock.

The consulting detective – although he didn't want to think of himself as _that_ right now, what with playing a criminal mastermind's personal _harlot _– stood slightly facing the table and threw his hips to one side. He arched his back again and then circled his hips all the way back around, all the while keeping eye contact. He was trying to visualize the woman he had seen doing this move on a dark stage rather than his own disgraceful image, which the eyes of his enemy were sending him back.

He tried moving his torso in an alluring wave-like motion, slowly revealing what lay underneath his shirt – he was letting said shirt hang just at his shoulders, intending to shrug it off to the floor as 'sexily' as he could manage.

But suddenly Moriarty was moving towards him, running a hand up his spine, creasing his shirt and pulling it back onto his shoulders. Sherlock couldn't hold back a shiver of revulsion at being handled like a doll, and his heart rate increased with the proximity. He was scared. Scared of what this man was making him do, scared of what he could do to _John_, scared of all the possible ways this could go wrong – and by wrong he meant something happening to John. Because obviously Sherlock himself was already doomed.

**"Oh, don't fret, beauty. Daddy's not hurting you, right?"**

To his right, Sherlock could hear John struggling against his restraints. He closed his eyes in defeat.

**"I just want you to keep the shirt on a little longer. You look gorgeous wearing it all crumpled and sweaty."**

_Sweaty? He wasn't _sweaty_! What was the man babbling about now?_

But suddenly Sherlock could feel the chill and realized that indeed, he had been sweating from the fear and the shame. He couldn't even keep the eye contact any more. Couldn't prevent a blush creeping across his cheeks.

**"Dear me, you truly _are_ lovely."**

The man was really getting on his nerves. Wasn't it enough that he had to do _this_? Did he really have to mock him verbally as well?

_Stop. Just get it over with._

As if getting the message, Moriarty smirked and walked back, admiring the view for a second before leaning against the table and staring at him intently. Enjoying the show. Sherlock closed his eyes again, lest he just threw up here and now. And that wouldn't make for a very _sexy_ sight now, would it? God, he'd have to delete that word once this was all over.

**"Don't think about the end before it's even started my dear. You might get bored."**

Sherlock tried to ignore the comment, but it chilled him to the bone to be so exposed. He was being read like an open book. Dispelling the awful thought, he kept waving his body and thrusting his hips, rotating them as he stepped back and forth, swaying and gyrating to his own personal soundtrack. To add to the effect, he stretched his arm up and around his head, revealing more white skin each time he stepped in and out, in and out – the gesture all the more tantalising as his shirt remained firmly on. At last he let his hand slide tentatively to his belt, but once again was interrupted by Moriarty's voice.

**"Oh come on dear, don't be boring. Why don't you use the chair?"**

Sherlock stared back helplessly as his meaning dawned on him. He couldn't _possibly_ want him to...

**"Of course I do."**

Sherlock tried swallowing, but his throat was so tight he only managed to enhance the panic that was threatening to overflow.

_No. This is nothing. At worst it_ _will end up with sex. On the other hand I could just watch them torture John until he begged for mercy and then kill him. The best option is obvious, really._

Yes, it was. But this wasn't actual sex. It was nothing like the ordinary rape, violent and messy. This was _art_. It had nothing to do with shoving him against a wall and just ravishing him on the spot. Oh, no, it was much more devious than that. The man was playing him like an instrument: no brutal force was needed against his person as the desired sounds were obtained through skilful manipulation. He was stripping him of each and every layer of his very being, despoiling his mind and defiling whatever sorry excuse for a heart he may have had. He had entered his mind palace and was walking around as if he owned the place. He had John at his mercy and he was making the doctor watch him as he was literally giving himself away. Because he was. Moriarty wasn't _forcing_ himself on him: he had asked him to be _entertaining_ and _sexy_, and Sherlock was complying _willingly_.

He had him dancing in the palm of his hand quite all right.

**"Don't make me hit Johnny boy again, Sherlock. Unless that turns you on too? Doesn't quite fit with the bashful virgin image, but then again, nobody would have guessed you had such resources. Well, nobody except me."**

He smiled shrewdly and Sherlock felt sick. The nausea was now overwhelming and more than a bit distracting. But maybe it was better that way – he didn't know nausea could act as Dutch courage and increase boldness, bringing a dizziness that could distract from fear.

On second thoughts, maybe it didn't.

**"Sherlock."**

A growl. Sherlock gave a start and knew the trembling was getting worse. He hoped John at least wouldn't notice. _NO! Don't think about him. He's not here. Not here at all. Forget him._

He stopped the thrusting and wiggling of his hips and stood face on to Moriarty, legs wide apart. Slowly, he bounced and pulsed up and down as he began to unbuckle it. He realized his hands were shaking, as if they really didn't want to do what came next, but he knew this was expected of him. He swallowed, almost choking himself in the process, and held each end of his belt as he placed it between his legs and began to rub and rock it back and forth. He knew he had been right upon seeing the satisfied smirk on his enemy's face. The man wasn't hard though. Sherlock knew he was getting off on this, but not as the vulgar would.

**"Being naughty, aren't we? Are you disappointed? Johnny boy there might have a more satisfying reaction, if that's what you're looking for,"** he added, with a sweet smile.

Sherlock felt the bile rise in his throat but willed it down again. He would have time to be sick and fall apart when this was over. When John was safe.

He stepped to the side and let go of his belt, swishing it along the floor. Then he attempted to walk purposefully in circle with a hand on his hip, while unzipping his trousers. Turning to face Moriarty once again, he resumed eye contact, his lips slightly parted because his lungs didn't seem to be functioning any more and his heart rate told him breathing through his nose would be nowhere near enough.

Before long he was looking back away again and thrashing his hips while running his hands all over his body. He hated the feel of his own sweat, the stickiness of his curls, the shivers and the blood draining away from his upper body, which seemed to be rushing to that particular area he certainly wasn't used to having stimulated. He tried to will away the threatening erection, and couldn't believe this was happening. He knew he was nervous, angry with himself for letting this happen, afraid of the outcome, and so bloody self-conscious that he realized he had never been so stressed and ashamed before in his life. He also knew that the part of the brain that interprets sexual arousal is the same area that interprets other arousal stimuli such as fear and anger. The only erections he had ever had were reflex ones or the very isolated morning ones. Having one forced out of him in such a way was definitely something he didn't wish to experience.

When he looked back up at his nemesis, he remembered that he really shouldn't be _thinking_ anything but _beat, rhythm, movements, what comes next_. Before he knew what he was doing, Sherlock sent him a dreading look, then a pleading one, _begging_ him _not_ to do what he knew was coming. Not with John in the room. _Please please please_... Moriarty grinned and the detective realized this wasn't going to work.

**"Please let me use the chair,"** he spluttered suddenly.

His nemesis arched an eye-brow but didn't move. Clearly a _go-ahead_.

**"Get the trousers out of the way first, though."**

Sherlock felt his heart sink. But he had gone too far anyway. It was useless trying to save his last shred of dignity – it was long gone. He had nothing left.

He danced backwards, wriggling his hips, until he hit the wall. He leant against it and writhed, thrusting his pelvis and running his arms over his chest and all the way down to his waist, tucking his thumbs in and slowly pulling his trousers down, inch by inch, arching his back and jerking his head. He couldn't hold back a moan as his half-erect member ground against the fabric, and he thought he was going to cry.

Once his trousers had fallen all the way down his legs, he took a deep breath and stepped out. Moriarty had been right. At the moment, he really _did_ want to draw blood – dear Jim's, but most of all, his own. He wondered absent-mindedly if he was going to live through this. He never thought shame could be so unbearable – he always considered it as something he was absolutely immune to. That is, until he met John. When the doctor's eyes held reproach or, even worse, disappointment, Sherlock started to feel this tingling sensation in the pit of his stomach and the urge to make it all better. But nothing like what he was presently suffering – a burning sensation he wished would _materialize_ so he could turn to ashes and never have to face the world again. Never have to face John.

**"Hey, you may want to focus here, sweetie. And Johnny boy, don't you dare avert your eyes again – Seb, you're allowed to shoot our stripper here – oh, but please, spare the face, would you?"**

Sherlock tried to will his mind blank and to ignore John still struggling against his restraints and squirming on the chair, completely oblivious to the gun pointed at him or the injury on his neck and shoulder. The detective took what he intended to be a deep breath but turned out to sound more like a hiss and, back arched, started tiptoeing slowly in a cat-walk around the chair, then swivelling it around so the back of it would face Moriarty. He noticed how the man had shifted a bit, so facing him would mean facing the two others as well. Catching Sherlock's glance, Jim smirked, and the detective could almost hear him say _Thought you'd enjoy the audience, baby._

With his back to Moriarty, he took a step towards the chair with his right leg and then swung his left leg up over before sitting down, arms leaning on the back, legs spread, looking straight into his enemy's pupils. The criminal wolf-whistled, and Sherlock had to close his eyes and shut himself away from the scene for a second because he felt the bile rising again in his throat.

He had to finish this. Get John safe. He circled his head around, placing his hands on the back of the chair and using his thighs to rise up and down, then suddenly swinged his hips from side to side, grinding them around to the left, then back around to the right.

**"Oh dear, and you said you didn't know how to do this. You're more endearing than a professional, you know?"**

Moriarty moved towards him and walked around the chair, circling him, watching every inch of his exposed body.

**"Now's a good time to remove that shirt, methinks..."**

And as he said that he pulled forcefully on the fabric, making Sherlock gasp and arch, his chest fully exposed as the shirt was still holding his arms back. The detective froze, and realized how strongly he was shaking.

**"No, no, precious, keep doing that thing with your hips, you were doing beautifully,"** his tormentor added while running a hand through his curls, then across the nape of his neck and along his spine. Sherlock was writhing against the touch and whimpered as Moriarty pulled the shirt back again, pulling the detective along with it and arching his back until Sherlock thought he was about to collapse, tugging on the black hair softly.

_Softly_. The man was moving him around like a puppet. He wasn't even hurting him or twisting his body. No, he would simply touch, and Sherlock would know exactly what he wanted, and comply. Moriarty's touch was cold. Not the hands of a lover of course, but not the hands of the everyday rapist either – in fact, if someone had been in the room and John and Sebastian hidden behind a curtain, the whole scene would have just looked like some kinky sex play in which both participants were more than willing. Sherlock moaned brokenly as a few fingers brushed against his nipples. He wanted nothing more than for John to avert his eyes now, praying the bullet he would receive would kill him on the spot.

**"Now, now, aren't you being overly dramatic?"** Moriarty chimed in, petting him with mock concern.

Sherlock was appalled to feel tears running down his cheeks. _Actual_ tears. Not the crocodile ones needed for a case.

**"Oh dear, are you entering the shock stage already? Oh well. Stand up then. Let's finish the dance."**

He held him by the collar of his shirt, very much like a mother cat lifting her kitten from the ground, and slowly took off the second to last piece of fabric that remained on his body. The shirt was tossed onto the ground and Sherlock wished it would just turn to dirt and never meet his eyes again.

**"Come on, sexy, dance for me till the end. You wouldn't want all those efforts to be put to waste now, would you?"**

Sherlock never hated the singsong voice so much as in this instant. But Moriarty be damned, he was right. This was no time to be all shaken. They weren't out of the woods yet, but they were almost there. Sherlock knew exactly what Moriarty wanted, and he would give it to him. He felt John's stare on him burning his skin and reviving the shame and self-disgust in the pit of his stomach, but this was no time to be sick either.

Slowly, he bent his knees and resumed a rocking motion with his hips, running his hands up to his head again and entangling his fingers in his hair, feeling the stickiness of the sweat and the wetness of the tears on his face, feeling, _really_ feeling his body for the first time in his life, and he couldn't hold back the renewed tears. He kept dancing, moving his arms down his throat then up again, wriggling his hips, heart hammering in his chest and making it more and more difficult to breathe. He felt his locks plastered to his forehead and the nape of his neck, felt his erection too tight in his underpants, felt his stomach ready to lurch, felt the breath of his nemesis on his back and his looming presence, felt the irrepressible shaking of his every limb.

**"Having trouble breathing, now, are we? No worries dear, Daddy's gonna make it all better."**

The cold hand that suddenly lay on his abdomen made him gasp and he started panting. He wondered briefly if that was actually hyperventilating, but dropped the matter as there were obviously other priorities at hand.

**"Come on, you've been a good boy until now. Relax your tummy for Daddy."**

If Sherlock had believed there was a God out there, he would have thanked him that his biological father had long been dead, for the sick obsession Moriarty had with that word would have driven him over the edge – more quickly, in any case. He was way past the edge by now.

He realized that his heavy panting and the increase of the panic was also probably due to the fact that the criminal had started to grind against him, his other hand on his left hip, caressing it as if he were petting a cat.

**"Let's finish with a nice little belly dance, shall we? I'll be generous and teach you the basics."**

Having Moriarty on his back holding him like a child in what should have been a comforting position was worse than anything the criminal had managed to do to him until now. It felt as if he owned him completely, because Sherlock wasn't even resisting, was _letting_ him touch him and crowd his personal space and really there was nothing such as a _personal_ space any more because he was nothing, owned nothing, nothing that Moriarty wasn't the true owner of. He couldn't run and hide in the recesses of his mind palace, because the man would come and get him there, feeling at home. He couldn't try to be smart, because Moriarty had outsmarted him – because he had let himself get _attached_ to someone who had become his utmost weakness, one his nemesis certainly didn't have, and never would. He had beaten Sherlock at his own game, _he_ was the true sociopath, and he knew and understood Sherlock so intimately that he had known exactly what should be done to break him beyond repair.

**"Shh, shh... We're almost done, love. Be good till the end of the show."**

His supposedly soothing voice whispering in his ear made Sherlock cry even more, but his panting was subdued.

**"Now, suck in your stomach, and move it from right to left. Come, I know you have the muscles. You're so thin I can _feel_ them shifting under your skin. It's a wonder how you manage to function with so little food – but then again, maybe you don't, do you, dear?"**

Sherlock let the comments wash over him and just complied. He was feeling emptier and emptier by the second. His body was still shaking and _turned on_, but he seemed to be fading away. _Not yet, though... not yet..._

**"Good, very good,"** Moriarty approved, patting the muscles.

This whole thing was the most subtle, artful and elaborate kind of despoilment Sherlock had ever encountered. Truly the work of a genius.

**"Why, thank you, I'm flattered. Come and make circles with your belly now, clench and release, clench, release, clench... Gooood. _You_ are the embodiment of _Perfectio_n, beauty. Your stomach ripples are truly fascinating! You're just so new to all of this, it's amazing what a fast learner you make."**

He amplified his grinding movements, thrusting against him, leaving his right hand possessively on his abdomen, and lowering his left one from the detective's hip to his inner thigh, leaning his head into his neck.

**"Come, love, come and shake your rear for me."**

Sherlock kept crying at the unwanted touch and still couldn't stop his mind admiring the _exquisiteness_ and the complete _success_ of Moriarty's torture. He had managed to subjugate him, using John as an incentive, and had everything set in advance so that by saving the doctor's life Sherlock would actually lose him. He had done everything to save his heart, only to realize that the very process had torn it away from him. It was fine, though. It was all fine. Because really he had brought this upon himself. _God_, he had been so _stupid_. Moriarty hadn't defiled or broken him: he had showed him – and John – how utterly defiled and broken he already was, always had been. In his place, John wouldn't be crying and shaking. John wouldn't have been all awkward and ridiculous, he would have been proud and given whatever the wacko in front of him was asking before turning to his friend and tending to his wounds as if _he_ didn't have any, because after all he had just been asked to strip and dance and the whole thing was so silly it really shouldn't have destroyed Sherlock so utterly.

He sensed Moriarty putting his left leg in between his legs, then turning him round to face him. Smirking up at him, he started a front to front grind, not even bothering to pin him to the wall, for he knew Sherlock would stand till the end, submissive to the extreme, fearing they would shoot John after all.

At the increased friction on his crotch Sherlock gasped and panted heavily again, moaning into each thrust, and he realized they were actually _dancing_, really dancing, or at least he was, as Moriarty held him, still wriggling his hips and waving his body. He could feel his enemy's cold hands on his buttocks, not gripping, but simply lying there. A reminder of his ownership, simple and sober. Most of all Sherlock could feel how _soft_ the criminal was down there – and that was the completion of the detective's humiliation. Slowly, almost sweetly, still grinding him, his nemesis lifted his chin and made him look straight into his sardonic eyes, tears pouring from his own.

**"Oh, don't fret, my dear. You were brilliant: you truly exceeded my expectations."**

He brought his right hand back up and wiped the tears on his cheek.

Sherlock shivered, and the criminal smirked. Of course he had been proving a point. Sherlock's virgin body had reacted strongly because it had never been stimulated in such a way. Because it was only transport – or so he said. A true sociopath doesn't ignore his body the way Sherlock did. Doesn't ignore sex. _Your body doesn't obey you, Sherlock,_ Moriarty's mocking glare was saying, _you're craving the touch and the affection just like anyone else, and you're even more stupid than they are because you refuse to acknowledge it. Look at you now. Just look at you. A trembling, panting, turned-on mess with pleading eyes. But we both know even begging's not going to help now, right? __Look at me. I'm everything you once wished you were and still kept trying to appear to be. Now, look at John. He's everything you wished you were although you know that can never be, because of that brilliant mind of yours. Neither a hero, nor a proper genius. Neither a good man, nor a great one. _And he added out loud for emphasis, knowing Sherlock had been following every thought he had directed at him:

**"You're nothing, love."**

He ground against him with a sudden thrust that made the detective yelp. Then he leant in and closed the distance that remained between their faces, whispering into his ear in an amused and contemptuous voice only Sherlock could hear:

**"Want me to tell you something else? You've been begging me with your eyes not to play with your little bulge down there and make you lose all control in front of Johnny. But you know what? It is _because_ he's watching that you're so turned on. Now, come."**

And Sherlock did. Crying loudly, almost screaming, moaning and jerking as he rode his orgasm, he finally felt the blissful blankness, but even that didn't swallow him whole and erase him like he wished. Moriarty's words kept echoing in his ears. The detective thought he heard a growl or a whimper coming from John's side, but he couldn't be sure. Stickiness and wetness settled on his lower body as well and he felt himself turn cold. Only then did he realize that he had collapsed onto the basement floor and that his tormentor had left him there like a broken doll.

**"Right. Well, that was fun. Thanks for the show, sexy! You can thank me later for the free lesson. Don't forget to untie Johnny boy before you leave, and make sure that his little scratches are seen to."**

Sherlock chuckled brokenly against the dirty floor, and that stopped Moriarty dead in his tracks, made him look back as he was about to leave the room. Even shredded to pieces, the consulting detective had picked on the irony of his final line and was _chuckling_ into the dirt. Maybe Moriarty had been wrong. Maybe this would break him just enough to make things even more interesting. That is, if Sherlock Holmes didn't kill himself in the ensuing hours.

**"Bye, boys! It was a pleasure – very much shared by all of us this time, I believe."**

And with a final grin he left, followed by 'Sebastian', who hadn't uttered one single word during the whole... whatever that had been.

_Right. This isn't over yet._

With that thought in mind, Sherlock managed to put himself together and stand up. Completely ignoring John's muffled sounds (the doctor was obviously trying to get his friend to untie him), the detective walked to the wall, put his trousers back on, then went straight to his coat without bothering with the shirt – he knew he could no longer even _touch_ it. He put his scarf on and buttoned up his coat so nobody could even guess that his chest was bare underneath it. Then he took his phone from his pocket and checked the signal – or lack thereof. Without once looking at John, he went out, up to the street and noted the address. He called the paramedics and told them their location, describing as precisely as he could the nature of John's injuries.

Then he went back to the basement, and put his phone on the table. He still hadn't spared a glance towards his... well, that was the point. His nothing. Because he had nothing left. As his body resumed shaking, Sherlock realized it was high time to go. Leaving his phone on the table was a clear enough message, even though he was certain that John had known where this was going from the very start – and if he hadn't, Moriarty's last remarks made it pretty obvious.

Truth be told, the detective had no idea. He wasn't thinking that far – in fact, he couldn't really think at all. Not like he usually did. He was drowning in the ruins of his mind palace and knew he had to leave before any more damage could be done. His 'mission' was accomplished. He chuckled darkly at the phrasing, but it soon turned into a sob and he almost threw himself at the door in his urge to run away. However he stopped abruptly in the doorway and, stiffening his trembling body, murmured:

**"I'm really sorry, John."**

Then he was gone, and unknowingly became the second man John wanted to murder that day.

* * *

><p>oOo<p>

**A/N:** I am thinking of doing a sequel but I wanted to post this as a oneshot because I feel it can stand on its own – as was originally intended. Hope you enjoyed! Please R&R, concrit is greatly appreciated.


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